Don’t Even Think About Talking to Me Until I’ve Had My Second La Croix

What a morning. Traffic was savage; I’ve legit got seventy-five e-mails
to answer; and, judging by my blinking landline, someone was aggro enough
to leave me a voice mail over the weekend. I swear—if anyone even thinks
about talking to me before I’ve had my second La Croix, I’m going to
fucking snap.

It’s impossible for me to live my best life until I’ve housed some
fruit-infused sparkling water. So I just can’t even with you right now,
O.K.? It’s Monday, I’m tired, and if I don’t get another can of
Pamplemousse in me soon I’m liable to bite someone’s head off.

You see this look on my face? It’s not “resting asshole face.” It’s “I-need-twenty-four-goddam-ounces-of-cran-razz-in-my face face.” This dog
isn’t on a leash anymore, bro. And I’m not talking about some adorbs
little corgi, either—I’m a pit bull, and my blood thirst won’t be quenched
until I’ve crushed a pair of La Croix.

You must think I’ve got a problem. Well, you’re right—I totes do have a
problem. I’m literally dying over here, and my thirsty ass will swipe
left on anyone who tries to stop me from feeding the dragon twelve
ounces of that sweet, sweet peach-pear bubble water.

Why am I so triggered, you ask? Because La Croix is the GOAT (Greatest of All Thegoddamseltzers). Don’t even think about trying to cuck me
with that Polar bullshit. My body is a temple, and I only baptize my
palate in the cool, refreshing waters of La Croix.

Do you know what La Croix means? It’s French for “Summer in a Can,
Asshat.” Sipping a piña colada on the beach is nice, but it’s a distant
second to cracking open that fourth coconut La Croix at the end of a
long day. And don’t even get me started on all the soda hounds spouting
off their “La Croix isn’t even sweet” bullshit. You know what else isn’t
sweet? Diabetes. You just got dunked on by science.

But go ahead, La Croix haters, keep destroying your body with that
artificially sweetened trash. I won’t tell you how to live your life, so
don’t tell me how to live mine, you half-legged turd. Yeah, I know that
doesn’t even make sense—guess my synapses aren’t on fleek yet, and they
won’t be until they’ve been level-set with a fluid pound of
melon-grapefruit fizzy water.

La Croix isn’t just a drink to me; it’s my entire goddam identity. I’ve
got to stay on brand. Double-fisting a pair of tangerine-flavored waters
is my way of letting everyone know that I’m hydrated as fuck, and this
conference call is about to be lit. If that bothers you, then I’m happy
to take this offline.